


Since the Olympics

by IBuriedTheLede



Category: Red White & Royal Blue - Casey McQuiston
Genre: Christ Alex, F/M, M/M, Shaan doesn’t worry, and then he does, the whole bloody time
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-18
Updated: 2020-08-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:28:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22308682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IBuriedTheLede/pseuds/IBuriedTheLede
Summary: As equerry, it’s Shaan Srivastava’s job to coordinate the life and schedule of Henry George Edward James Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor. Sometimes, that gets ... complicated.
Relationships: Alex Claremont-Diaz/Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor, Shaan Srivastava/Zahra Bankston
Comments: 66
Kudos: 296





	1. Rio, August 2016

Rio de Janeiro, Brazil

August 10, 2016

Shaan doesn’t worry. Yet.

Sure, it’s abundantly clear Henry is rattled by meeting Alexander Claremont-Diaz. Henry doesn’t show this, precisely, at least not in ways that a camera or an eagle-eyed reporter would catch. But Shaan can hear both the sharp intake of breath and the extra half-second Henry takes before letting it out. It’s a trick he himself gleaned from Henry’s nonstop media training: that the key to appearing calm is all in the breath. Fast breathing, heavy breathing, even breathing too slowly — any combination could signal weakness to an opponent, dump chum in the water and indicate it’s time for the sharks to begin circling. That extra half-second is all Henry gets to keep everything under control.

Henry uses the extra half-second all the time with Philip and the Queen. Sometimes even with Bea, though it’s become less frequent since she returned from rehabilitation. Princess Catherine isn’t around frequently enough for Shaan to discern if Henry needs the extra half-second with her or not, which is disheartening either way. Most often Henry uses the extra half-second with the people to whom he should be closest. Perhaps they would be close, were they any other family.

To Shaan’s awareness — and his knowledge of the ins and outs of Henry George Edward James Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor is nothing if not comprehensive — Henry hasn’t had to deploy the extra half-second technique with a stranger in a long time. And how very bloody inconvenient a stranger Alexander Claremont-Diaz turns out to be.

Shaan knows who the American golden boy is — he did, after all, commission a member of the crown’s communications team to create a dossier on all British athletes, coaches, and other important social and political attendees at this Olympic Games — just as he knows Henry knows. Beyond being a good student, Henry is constantly on the lookout for reading material to occupy his time during his too-frequent sleepless nights, and Shaan knows he’s rifled through the dossier at least a few times.

The extra half-second turns into another extra half-second, and then another. Then another. Shaan takes an extra half-second breath of his own. _Shit_.

Henry turns, busying himself with the program in his hands. “What’s next today?” he asks Shaan, though they discussed the upcoming 100-meter backstroke final just an hour ago.

“It’s swimming this afternoon, sir,” Shaan says. 

Right,” Henry says, still fiddling with the pages. “Of course.”

Shaan’s hoping they can make an early escape — Henry has seen and been seen here, after all. He’s thinking they might be able to sneak out a back door when Alexander Claremont-Diaz notices Henry. Shaan sees the moment. The standard response is one of eyes widening, posture straightening, breath quickening. Henry is, to so many, the encapsulation of a fairy-tale Prince Charming come to life. But there’s something in Alexander Claremont-Diaz’s recognition of Henry that sets off a warning bell in Shaan’s gut. It’s too warm, too familiar, too ... something. Shaan barely has time to be annoyed that he can’t put the sense into words before Alexander Claremont-Diaz approaches.

There’s nothing for it. Alerting Henry now would make him startle, create the potential for unwanted attention. So Shaan instead gives himself three full seconds to peruse the fast-approaching American. Curly hair, definite use of product, but not obviously so. Ralph Lauren polo, similar to the opening ceremony getup for the American team but just different enough so he won’t be confused as an athlete. Chinos, Gap brand likely, nicely pressed. Cowboy boots, as if this weren’t fucking Brazil in fucking August. Shaan keeps his face calm and inscrutable.

“Hey!” Alexander Claremont-Diaz’s loud American voice rings out. Shaan fights the urge to roll his eyes. So uncouth. He didn’t even wait for an introduction.

Henry turns slowly, and Shaan takes two discreet steps behind him. Briefly he wonders how the colors of the Union Jack can appear so dignified on Henry and so brazen, so loud, on Alexander Claremont-Diaz. The American flag painted in glitter across his right cheek probably has something to do with it. But then Shaan looks at Henry’s face.

 _Oh dear_.

Henry has a look. Shaan knows the one. It’s not his favorite look. It’s up there with his least favorite of Henry’s looks, actually. He’s bypassed _pleasant prince_ and _politely meeting a stranger_ and even _I know I should know this person, but I don’t, Shaan please help_ and moved straight into _I can’t talk to you, I won’t, please don’t make me_. Shaan wishes Percy were here with them. Percy could handle this situation with aplomb. But he’s been called away and it’s just Shaan with Henry, and there are rules.

Shaan knows it’s futile to wish for a different fate for Henry, to wish that he could be an anonymous bloke in the world, one for whom it wouldn’t be a complete crisis to be attracted to the son of an American politician — the potential first female president, no less — but he does, just for a second. Henry deserves more than this cloaked, closeted life.

 _And don’t you deserve to be more than an equerry?_ a voice Shaan often silences pipes up. He ruthlessly shoves it down.

“I’m Alex,” the boy says, sticking his hand out to Henry. “It’s nice to meet you.”

Henry returns the handshake, his arm moving in a robotic yet instinctive way.

“Henry,” he says shortly.

“I know,” Alexander Claremont-Diaz says.

“Right,” Henry says. “Well.”

He finishes the handshake, takes another half-second, then turns. He sends a look to Shaan. “Can you get rid of him?” Henry asks, not nearly quietly enough.

It takes all of Shaan’s not inconsiderable restraint to prevent his eyebrows from shooting up to his hairline. He steps back again, motioning toward the back door.

Alexander Claremont-Diaz looks stunned as Henry begins to make his way toward the exit. Shaan is sure he’s never been so summarily dismissed as he was by Henry just now. It would be almost funny, were the situation not so precarious.

“Do excuse us, sir,” Shaan says, before turning and following Henry out of the room.

They ignore the American delegation for the rest of the Games. Prior to arriving in Brazil, Shaan had had various ideas that Henry might strike up a connection with either June Claremont-Diaz or Nora Holleran, both of whom would be infinitely more suitable for an afternoon tea date that Shaan would assign to a palace-approved photographer, who would later submit the photos for palace approval before sending them on to a palace-approved paper. Shaan would provide the details. He had the June Claremont-Diaz copy already written, in fact. But following the three-times-too-many half-second breath situation, Shaan has to use backup plan C. An Australian track and field star, who isn’t due to compete for four days, does nicely.

IS SHE PRINCE HENRY’S NEW MATE?, the headline screams across his tablet, as he and Henry board the private plane back to London.

Henry puts on a sleep mask and his noise-canceling headphones almost the moment after they board. Shaan takes a moment to hang up his jacket — he wishes he could have convinced Henry to do the same, but they’ve had that conversation too many times to repeat it, and he knows better to interrupt Henry when he’s trying to sleep — and settles himself in a seat.

“All right, Shaan?” asks Gerry, one of Henry’s PPOs, who often joins them on transatlantic flights. Shaan rather likes Gerry. He’s more than capable of shutting a situation down quickly. Plus he’s a fair hand at gin rummy, which helps on these long trips.

“All right,” Shaan replies. “You?”

“All right.”

“Anything to be knowing about?”

“He’s to call the Princess when he lands,” Gerry says. Upon Shaan’s look, he clarifies: “Princess Beatrice.”

“Right,” Shaan says. He tries not to be bothered by the fact that it’s been more than a year since Henry’s mother, Princess Catherine, actively sought out the company of her youngest son. “Anything else?”

“Pip had a bird over,” Gerry says, lowering his voice slightly and shifting closer to Shaan. He doubts Henry would care about Gerry’s use of Prince Philip’s nickname — Henry has certainly called his brother enough foul things in Shaan’s presence — but there is the matter of respect for the heir to the throne, and all. “Name’s Martha. Seems nice enough.”

 _Nice enough_. What a charming description of a woman who could, one day, be wife to a king.

“Are they to see each other again?” Shaan asks.

“Dunno. He’s set to leave for Afghanistan in two weeks. Maybe before then.”

“All right,” Shaan nods. “I’m going to shut my eyes for a bit now.”

“Right-o.” Gerry pulls a pack of playing cards out of his pocket, and Shaan does in fact close his eyes.

The situation isn’t dire. Nor can it even be credibly called a situation. Henry has had one brief interaction with a curly haired son of a powerful American politician. There had been nothing tawdry, nothing scandalous. Nothing Shaan had to cover up more than he already has.

If only there hadn’t been the three-times-too-many extra half-second breaths. Now that the plane was fully in the air and thus away from any and all cameras — and with a quick glimpse to make sure Henry’s headphones are indeed turned on — Shaan allows himself one actual, full-breath sigh.

 _Perhaps it’s nothing_ , he tries to convince himself. Perhaps Ellen Claremont will lose. Americans aren’t known for their adoration of female leaders, after all. And, if she loses, Alexander Claremont-Diaz becomes much less of a problem.

It’s that thought that tips Shaan into actual sleep. _Maybe she’ll lose_.

Barely two months later, she wins. And Shaan begins to worry.


	2. London, September 2019

London

September 2019

“Right,” Zahra Bankston says on the hastily scheduled Skype call. “Let’s get to it.”

Shaan momentarily puts aside all of his carefully compartmentalized frustration, anger, exhaustion and — though he’d never admit it — amusement at this entire situation to stare at the woman on the screen.

 _She’s fucking gorgeous_ , is the first thing he thinks.

Even on a Skype call from thousands of miles away, Zahra Bankston radiates a kinetic energy that enthralls him. She’s got a tumbler of what he assumes is coffee clutched in her hand, a serious look on her face and pearls in her ears, a nicely put together touch for — Shaan glimpses at the wall, where several clocks denote the time in different cities across the globe — just after five in the morning, Eastern Standard. And though on the surface she’s keeping a calm, cool demeanor, Shaan can tell that under the facade she’s seriously pissed off. This puts him somewhat at ease. At least Alexander Claremont-Diaz’s people realize what an unnecessarily embarrassing fuckup this is for all parties involved.

The Sun is calling it a _cake-tastrophe_. Shaan closes his eyes for a moment.

When he reopens them, the palace’s chief communications manager is clearing his throat.

“Mrs. Bankston,” he begins.

“Ms.,” Zahra says.

“I’m sorry?” Cornelius Montclair says, and Shaan’s grip tightens on his tea. _Not married._ Next to him, Montclair blusters like he’s never met a woman who uses _Ms_. before. His faux confusion is a transparent attempt to throw this American off her game. Either that or he’s being deliberately obtuse. Shaan wouldn’t put it past him.

He doesn’t begrudge Montclair’s attempt to assert his authority and recalibrate the situation into the crown’s control — after all, they haven’t publicly dealt with a scandal of this magnitude since Bea went to rehab — but trying to bully this woman is clearly a fool’s errand. Intimidation rarely works with Americans, particularly when the attempt comes from reedy Brits in bow ties, and it takes one look at Zahra Bankston to see Montclair couldn’t intimidate her even if he tried.

Besides, the strategy she sent over is a good beginning. Shaan hides a smile behind a sip of tea from his own stainless tumbler.

“It’s Ms. Bankston,” she says, and Montclair adjusts his bow tie. “But that doesn’t matter. What are your thoughts on the tentative plan I sent you?”

Immediately down to business. Shaan takes a second sip of tea to hide a broader smile.

Another throat clears, and this time it’s Montclair’s deputy Nigel piping up.

“That will be difficult,” he wheezes. “His Royal Highness’s schedule is quite full at the moment.”

“Indeed it is,” Montclair clips.

Shaan sets his tea down, unsure what they’re playing at, what they’re trying to accomplish with these protestations. Schedules are always full. But schedules can be rearranged. Montclair and Nigel must see that the only path forward is to take the situation in hand and pivot. Keeping calm and carrying on might have worked were this a less high-profile scandal, at a less high-profile event, involving anyone other than an heir to the British throne and the First Son of the United States. The First Son, with whom Henry is still unfailingly civil and polite, but who still prompts an extra half-second breath or three. The First Son, at whom Henry steals glances across crowded rooms that last a beat too long, even now, three years after their first meeting.

It is crucial they handle this quickly. Shaan wants as little scrutiny as possible about Henry’s past behavior and interaction with Alexander Claremont-Diaz. The tabloids, though usually on a bit of a leash where Queen Mary’s grandchildren are involved, have been scandal-hungry in a post-Bea-at-rehab world, and will be absolutely ravenous now that Philip is married. Shaan will not — _will not_ — allow the vultures to descend on Henry. The only way to do that is to give them something new to write about, a situation where the crown and the White House can control the narrative. One in which Henry can play the well-rehearsed role of blandly polite prince.

Shaan recalls the story that almost broke just before Arthur died, where a paparazzo had somehow gotten into the rubbish bins and found drug paraphernalia, and how they’d had to move like lightning to keep it under wraps. He thinks of how, since the Olympics, and especially since Ellen Claremont’s election, he’s fallen into the habit of leaving magazines and other publications featuring Alexander Claremont-Diaz in Henry’s Kensington apartments. It’s unspoken, but Henry knows Shaan knows, and it adds a tricky layer to this already overcomplicated mess. This mess that must be contained as quickly as possible.

Besides, who is bloody Nigel to say Henry’s schedule is too full? Henry’s schedule is Shaan’s domain. Zahra — Ms. Bankston, he corrects himself — looks as though she’d like very much to tell Nigel where he can stick his complaints, and Shaan somewhat incredibly feels another smile coming on. He hides it again behind his tea before stepping into the conversation.

“I think you’ll find,” he says, shuffling a copy of Henry’s monthly agenda, “that if we move the German alternative energy trip to next quarter, that frees up several days —“

“Her Majesty will never agree,” Montclair says. “This trip is vital for supporting the crown’s decision to examine the efficacy of sustainable energy.”

As if climate change and the importance of sustainable power only became real in 2019, because the palace decreed it thus. Shaan shuffles the papers again. He can’t afford to piss off Montclair on this, especially since he’ll be the one to make the pitch to the Queen.

Shaan glances at the screen. Zahra is picking up her tumbler, and he watches as she takes a drink. He swallows.

“I understand the importance of the trip,” he says, after a pause, looking away from her face, “but delaying it in favor of promoting a favorable diplomatic relationship with the States would be beneficial for us all.”

“I agree,” Zahra — Ms. Bankston — says. “Presumably German wind turbines will still be in operation after this weekend. Waiting any longer to manage cakegate would result in compounding negative press, which President Claremont would prefer to avoid.”

Had anyone told her the trip was to view turbines? Shaan hadn’t thought the Americans were involved. Maybe she had known about it ahead of time — or had figured it out on the fly. He doesn’t get long to be impressed, however, because when neither Montclair nor Nigel has a ready response, she moves fast to press her advantage.

“Now that Prince Philip is married, the press will be hungry for another storyline,” she says. “Wouldn’t you rather drive this narrative? Instead of being on the defensive for any stories about the First Son and Prince Henry hating each other, we can reverse it. Set them back on their heels. It won’t be hard to get the story out. We release a joint statement. The cake was a complete accident, total misunderstanding — and actually the prince and Alex are close personal friends who rarely get to see each other, etcetera, etcetera. An exclusive with People magazine, with quotes about their shared experiences as sons of world leaders, how they cherish the friendship. Potentially a leak to a British tabloid, citing a friend of the family telling how they’re the only ones who can truly understand the unique pressures of their lives, things like that. Alex and the prince act like they’re best friends.”

It’s a solid pitch. He knows it’s a solid pitch. But he still feels a pang of unease in his gut. Henry has been trained well, has been training his whole life in fact, but this will test his limits. Besides, Alexander Claremont-Diaz has never exactly been friendly toward Henry, and Shaan hadn’t needed a £60,000 cake on the ground to fully grasp the extent to which the kid lacks impulse control.

“Do you think,” he begins, slowly, not looking at the screen. He takes a breath. “Do you think Mr. Claremont-Diaz will be capable of acting as though he and His Royal Highness are —“

“I’ll make sure of it,” Zahra — Ms. Bankston — says. “He’ll listen to me.”

The determination in her voice, the underlying steel there, makes it clear how this woman got to be where she is. She’s captivating. Shaan is captivated.

She is also nearly four thousand miles away, and he needs to focus on Henry.

He allows himself to think, just for a moment, how very sad this narrative is. How, in a different life, this spin they’ll manufacture for good press could be the actual truth. That Alexander Claremont-Diaz and Henry probably could be close friends. How they really are uniquely situated to understand the strangeness of their respective lives, the microscopes they’re under. The narrative could be the truth — were it not for Alex’s consistent attempts to rankle Henry during the past three years. Were it not for Henry’s exhausting need to don an extra layer of protective armor any time the First Son of the United States comes ‘round.

He’s not so much worried about how Henry comports himself in public — that, at least, has always been carefully controlled — but he is concerned about the internal impact. Not that that’s something to bring up in front of Montclair and Nigel and Zahra — Ms. Bankston.

Shaan focuses his eyes on her face. Does she know? Does she suspect? Nigel is in the dark, but Montclair likely has an inkling. He’s worked for the crown since Shaan was in nappies, and he always seems to prioritize the Shaan-arranged photos and stories about Henry dating an athlete or a socialite or an heiress — most recently Marie-Juliette von DuPont of Brussels — above anything to do with Philip or Bea.

Not that they’ve ever come close to discussing such matters.

“The crown can never support a statement in which His Royal Highness speaks negatively about his position,” Nigel says. “It is a privilege and he is proud to represent and uphold a tradition that has lasted through the centuries.”

Zahra — Ms. Bankston — stays quiet. Shaan thinks he can see that she’s barely refraining from rolling her eyes. He has to keep hold of himself too whenever Nigel starts waxing poetic about the monarchy.

“Perhaps,” Montclair says, “we can get ahead of any future negative press by creating this narrative of friendliness and ease.”

Which was exactly Zahra’s — _goddammit_ — idea.

“Yes, as Ms. Bankston said,” Shaan interjects, giving himself a mental high five for at least being able to get her name right when speaking, “planting the seed of the friendship now will reap dividends later. For both the Presidency and the crown.”

Montclair sniffs, Nigel says nothing, and Zahra — for some reason he cannot think of her as anything but — turns her gaze to him. It is fierce and determined and sexy as hell, even from thousands of miles away and across a Skype connection. Shaan gives himself an extra half second breath.

“Thank you, ah—”

She’s reaching, and he can’t quite discern for what. Shaan can’t help. He’s too distracted by her eyes.

“I didn’t catch your name,” she says, still holding eye contact. Shaan takes another extra half second. He wants to see those eyes in person. He wants to meet _her_ in person.

“Shaan Srivastava,” he says. “Equerry to His Royal Highness.”

“Equerry?” she asks.

“I oversee Prince Henry’s daily schedule and appearances.”

“Ah,” she says.

“It’s nice to meet you,” he says, because it is.

“It’s nice to meet you too,” she says.

“When you’re finished,” Montclair, ever the ass, interrupts. “As agreed, it’s beneficial for us all to foster the idea of a friendship between His Royal Highness and the First Son. I will present the idea to Her Majesty’s team for their approval. Ms. Bankston, if you can arrange for Mr. Claremont-Diaz to travel to London —”

“Alex is in school,” Zahra says. “He has classes.”

“The crown, and therefore the citizens of the United Kingdom, spent fifty-seven thousand four hundred ninety pounds on a wedding cake that Mr. Claremont-Diaz ruined,” Nigel says before stopping to wheeze again. Perhaps he has stress-induced asthma.

Zahra wisely doesn’t fight this.

“Of course,” she says. “And may I again extend the sincere apologies of President Claremont and the entire White House for that grievous mistake.”

“Thank you,” Montclair says primly.

“If Mr. Claremont-Diaz can travel here, I can easily arrange appearances,” Shaan says. “A private greeting, with palace photographers nearby. Maybe at the stables.”

“The flora there will photograph beautifully this time of year,” says Nigel, making a note and wheezing once more. Beyond the photogenic flora, Shaan thinks, it’s good to set this at the stables. Henry feels at home on a horse. Riding calms him. And he’ll certainly need all the calm he can get before spending a solid thirty-six hours in the company of Alexander Claremont-Diaz.

“What about a TV spot?” Zahra suggests. “Something friendly, a morning show.”

“ITV would work,” Shaan says.

“And a public joint appearance after that. A hospital?”

“Pediatric oncology,” Shaan says.

“Works for me,” she says. “We can outline requirements for social media posts and the talking points we want them to stick to for the TV interview.”

“We’ll need a fact sheet,” Shaan says. “If they’re going to pretend to be friends—”

“No slip ups, I agree,” she finishes the thought. “I’m assuming you have NDAs to sign?”

“Yes,” he says, warming at how quickly they can move with this, how he doesn’t have to stop and explain. “I’m assuming your legal team wants to review?”

“Yes.” She stops and takes a breath. He feels energized, electrified. He wants her to keep saying _yes_. She holds his gaze for another moment before looking down to shuffle her own papers. “And we have our own set as well. If you send me yours I’ll send you ours and we can have them reviewed ASAP.”

“Will do. We’ll check in with ITV and hospital and arrange the photogs.”

“I’ll work on a couple quotes to give to the comms team. If you approve, we’ll arrange with People.”

“I’ll get you Prince Henry’s fact sheet.”

“And I’ll send you Alex’s.”

“And you’ll outline the social posts?”

“Yes, if you want to review the TV talking points.”

“Of course.”

Montclair clears his throat again, seeming affronted. Shaan doesn’t spare too much concern for this.

“My team will obviously be the ones to craft the public statement, and the narrative for the television appearance,” he says. “And the fact sheet for His Royal Highness is in our possession.”

“OK,” Zahra says, and Shaan swears there’s an implied “whatever” that follows. “I think we’re at a good stopping point. Do you want to take an hour and come back with all we’ve discussed? If it’s amenable I’ll take it to our Communications Director.”

“That would be acceptable,” Nigel pipes in.

Shaan still looks at Zahra. She’s shuffling papers again.

“OK,” she repeats, before looking through the screen directly at Shaan. “Talk to you later.”


	3. Washington, D.C., September 2019

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zahra loves her job, but goddamn is it difficult to like sometimes. Mostly when Alexander Claremont-Diaz, the exasperating golden boy of the White House Trio, is involved.

Washington, D.C.

September 2019

Zahra presses end on the Skype call and sits back in her home office chair. She takes a deep breath, and then another. She crosses her legs, uncrosses them. Crosses them again.

She tosses her hair, takes a sip of her coffee. Tries not to examine why she’s feeling so fidgety. Tries not to think about the unsettlingly handsome Brit with the voice and the beard and the face.

She isn’t successful.

Zahra stands up quickly, picking up her phone with intent. Scrolling through her contacts, she reaches one of the several Bureau contacts she has at the ready. She debates asking for a background check on this Shaan character. For Alex, of course. If Shaan — Mr. Srivastava — is going to be responsible for handling Alex’s arrival and departure from London, then it’s important the West Wing be briefed on him. How long he’s worked for the crown, and for Prince Henry in particular. How long he’s had that beard. His marital status.

She gives herself a little shake. Background check can come later. Right now, she has work to do. She settles herself back at her desk.

The sky is just beginning to signal the beginnings of sunrise by the time she’s nearly finished hashing out the personal details of Alexander Claremont-Diaz, the exasperating golden boy of the White House Trio. It’s taken a depressingly short time to outline family, age, university and major, expected graduation — the motherfucker better fucking graduate — job history, favorite book, favorite movie, favorite album, favorite food. She pauses at best friend — she’s already put June down as sister and Nora as ex-girlfriend; would it be too pathetic to put them down again? He’s in college; shouldn’t he have more friends?

_You’re a grown woman; shouldn’t you?_

Zahra crushes the thought. She is not yet 40 and is the goddamn deputy chief of staff to the first fucking woman president in U.S. history, and she is not going to let some transatlantic rivalry between two kids who should know better fuck up anything about that situation.

She finishes the fact sheet with Alex’s latest courses, grades and schedule (she chooses not to spend long contemplating how easily those specifics came to her) and then busies herself with outlining social media post guidelines for this weekend. She’s taken to calling it Operation Bromance in her mind — mostly because she finds it objectively funny but also because she knows Alex, the little shit, will find it deeply annoying — and then whips up a couple quotes about how Alex and Henry really are close personal friends, and have been ever since meeting at the Olympics, and they try to find time in their schedules to see each other when possible.

It’s utter horseshit. The tabloids will eat it with a spoon.

She’s just giving the quotes a read through, hoping she can squeeze in a few minutes of actual work before getting on Skype with the Brits, when the email from Shaan comes in.

As promised, he’s sent her the NDA, as well as the fact sheet and talking points, with the latter two clearly labeled “See attached per the office of Cornelius Montclair.”

She checks her watch. Done within forty-three minutes, even the pieces she assumed would be problematically delayed by layers of monarchical bullshit.

_Huh_.

She refuses to be impressed by this, by someone doing their job. She refuses to be impressed by a grown man whose job is to manage the appearances schedule of another grown man. Even if he has a voice out of a James Bond film and an impeccable beard and a professional competence she finds incredibly sexy.

Once more, Zahra uncrosses and recrosses her legs. She won’t be impressed by this. So he knows his charge well. So what? She’s just spent the better part of forty-five minutes detailing how Alex Claremont-Diaz prefers Helados to pints of ice cream and coffee to the exclusion of any other beverage. Zahra sighs.

Her job is a privilege. Serving the president is a privilege. Serving the first woman president is a privilege. Being a Black woman coming to work every day in a building built by slaves is goddamn miraculous. She knows this. She loves her job, she loves her job, she loves her job.

She loves her job, but goddamn is it difficult to like sometimes. Mostly when Alex is involved. Like now, when instead of doing actual work — of which there is always plenty — she’s working on two hours of sleep to create an Operation Bromance Master Plan, all while Alex is jetting back from fucking England, hopefully with his fucking tail between his fucking legs.

Oh, who is she kidding. In no world would Alex ever voluntarily admit wrongdoing. Especially when it comes to Prince fucking Charming.

Zahra opens the Prince Henry fact sheet. Dog name David? _Great Expectations_? She supposes the dog name must have some deeper meaning, but is hiding behind a plain facade. _Great Expectations_ may well have been chosen by the palace’s PR army — she’s only gotten a brief taste this morning, but she expects Cornelius Montclair runs a very Stiff Upper Lip ship.

She wonders if she should have been less honest, with more PR-focused intentions, with Alex’s fact sheet. Rhythmic gymnastics, for one. Should she go with something more all-American, like football or baseball?

Zahra downs another swing of coffee and stretches her arms above her head. Alex is the half-Mexican son of a divorced Democrat from Texas, who just happens to be the first female president of the rampantly misogynistic United States. President Claremont’s entire life, and family, is redefining all-American.

“The rhythmic gymnastics stays,” she says to herself, glancing through the fact sheet one more time before attaching it to her secure email, copying the White House communications office and pressing send.

She’s got 4 minutes before they’re scheduled to talk again, which is enough time to get some more coffee. She scarfs down a granola bar too, just to keep up the battle between her stomach lining and the acidic caffeine she’s constantly downing. Catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror, she fiddles with her hair and worries her bottom lip.

There’s just enough time left. She dashes to her dresser — not quite a sprint, but faster than a run — and grabs a tube of lipstick and some mascara. She swipes on two layers of each and blots her mouth, making it back to her desk chair just as the Skype call comes in.

“Hello,” she says, not smiling, but not frowning either. Damn, his face looks good. “Let’s get to it.”

\---

An hour later, after several unnecessary sniffs from Cornelius Montclair — Zahra wonders briefly if he’s on coke, then dismisses the thought — their plan is in motion. She has sent the relevant paperwork to the White House Counsel’s office and the communications team, who will then pass it on to President Claremont. The jet carrying Alex, June, Nora, and several other protective officers, should be landing within the next 45 minutes.

Zahra has been spending the past hour ruthlessly shoving down any tangential thoughts unrelated to the Operation Bromance Master Plan, including dark brown eyes and a beard that somehow looks soft even across an ocean and a Skype connection. But now, with the call ended, she allows her mind to wander. Shaan's gaze had been intent and focused and incredibly sexy, even while hashing out details of which wing Alex would stay in over the weekend and the intricacies of the crown’s NDAs, which are somehow even more comprehensive than the White House’s. Ellen’s scheduler is always efficient, but Zahra gets the sense that Shaan’s organizational prowess would impress even the most hyper-focused government aides.

As she returns to her dresser, taking off her pearls and covering her hair before hopping in the shower, she allows her mind to wander further, imagining big brown hands on her body, a scratch of beard between her thighs. She’d bet good money that his beard is regularly maintained with oil or other moisturizers. She blushes, even in the shower. The heated combination of the water and her imagination is a lot for just after 7 in the morning.

She gives herself one more moment in the heat, then twists the knob to turn the spray suddenly, mercilessly cold. The shock to her system is just as effective as a couple of espresso shots, and is a habit she got into at Howard, when there was little time for being tired. Now she has even less time for being tired, and certainly no time for taking a slow morning.

She’s just unwrapping her hair when Beyonce’s Run the World — Ellen’s ringtone, and the only one ever allowed to break through Zahra’s myriad do not disturb setups — blasts from her desk.

“What the fuck is his _problem_ with this prince?” President Claremont asks in a tone that’s more resigned than heated.

“Good morning, ma’am.”

“I just don’t understand how he could be such a deliberate dumbass when it comes to England, and be so savvy in so many other areas,” Ellen continues.

“The mind boggles.” Zahra walks to her closet to get her suit out for the day. It’s true, though she’d never admit it out loud. Alex has a gift for politics, the way Nora’s numerical mind works in ways even Zahra can’t comprehend. Too bad Alex also has a knack for delusions of grandeur that can only come from being 21 and brilliant.

“This is a good plan,” Ellen says, and Zahra smiles to herself. Praise from Ellen is still a heady thing, even after all these years. “I doubt he’ll like going to England, but unfortunately for him I don’t give a fuck. Just make sure he knows the plan to the letter.”

“Yes ma’am,” Zahra says, and the call disconnects.

Fifteen minutes later, she’s out the door, suit and heels on and coffee in hand. When she sees the first newspaper on her corner newsstand, she comes to a halt. The phrase _Second English-American War_ jumps out. Zahra alternately wonders if they mean the Revolutionary War or the War of 1812 before she stalks to the stand and scoops up the pile of papers.

“Looks like he’s got himself into it this time, ‘eh?” Joey, the newsstand owner, says, nodding to a picture of Alex and Prince Henry on the ground, surrounded by a mountain of icing.

Zahra simply glares as she hands over her pre-counted pile of cash and coin. Joey knows better than to ask her about the First Family.

“Have a good day, Z,” he chuckles, taking the cash. On her walk in — a brief two blocks — she spots two more papers, and buys those too. _Battle Royal_ one screams, a headline not nearly as clever as its writer clearly thought it was.

“Fucking FSOTUS,” she says under her breath, as she makes her way to one of the employee entrances at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. Her phone buzzes — a text from one of Alex’s PPOs that the plane was due on the ground shortly. Then it buzzes again, this time from an unknown number.

_Good morning Ms. Bankston. This is Shaan Srivastava. I thought we should have a way to communicate quickly_ , the text reads.

Zahra almost drops the papers. She didn’t give him her number. How did he get her number?

_Your communications office kindly passed along your contact information_ , the next text reads.

“Jesus Christ,” she mutters. Hauling the papers to one side, she taps out, _OK. In future, ask me first for this kind of information_.

_Noted_ , Shaan writes back.

She pauses briefly.

_And don’t flirt with me too much,_ she writes. _We both have jobs to do._

She hits send before she can think too hard about what he could read into that message. 

His own text comes back quickly. _Wouldn’t dream of it, Ms. Bankston._

Zahra tucks the phone into her bag, hides a smile, and makes her way into the West Wing.


	4. London, October 2019

London

October 2019 

Shaan pauses outside Henry’s private apartments, allowing himself a brief moment before rapping on the door with his knuckles. When Henry was younger, they had a secret knock. Well, a secret knock known by almost the entire servants’ staff and the palace security detail — but still.

Bea and Henry had made up their own knocks all the time, and Arthur as well. Philip had dismissed it as childish. Princess Catherine has never had a secret knock, so far as Shaan knows. In fact, in the past few years, she’s rarely set foot in these apartments.

Shaan’s anger and frustration at the princess passed long ago, and now hovers somewhere between sadness and pity. If there’s one thing he’ll give her credit for, it’s that he’s fairly sure she’s known about Henry for years, and either deliberately hid it from the Queen or took steps to prevent Henry from having to lie. She and Shaan have never spoken about it — indeed, Henry’s sexuality (or anyone’s sexuality, for that matter) falls among Matters Which Are Never To Be Discussed Aloud — but there have been signs of her knowing. Like the time she encouraged Henry to accept an invitation to a country party, a shooting expedition sure to be attended by a number of single women with appropriate backgrounds. Straight out of a Regency-era novel. 

Of course, Alexander Claremont-Diaz is anything but appropriate.

After the Olympics, Shaan managed to hold on to a slim hope that Alexander Claremont-Diaz would fade away, fade into memories of just another Golden Boy with good hair and a pretty face, whom Henry met once and could never see again. Be replaced by someone, anyone, else. A closeted Lord capable of discretion, or one of Bea’s friends who had proven trustworthy by not running to the press with news of her addiction. Someone who wasn’t the son of one of the most powerful political operatives in the world, whose family had not already made history by their sheer lack of traditionality.

He’s long since given up that hope. Now, above all else, he must scrupulously maintain Henry’s public and private image. While Shaan is liberal in all the allowable ways — one can’t exactly help noticing the roar of the motorbike he rides to work — he can only imagine the pain that could follow Henry’s choosing someone so very untraditional. Because if there is one thing The Firm prizes above all, it’s tradition.

But still, he leaves the magazines. And still, Henry notices. 

Because Alexander Claremont-Diaz is different. Has always been different.

Alexander Claremont-Diaz sticks.

And now Shaan has to have a conversation he really, deeply,  _ truly _ does not want to have. 

He’s knocking again when Henry’s door flies open. His posture is ramrod straight, though his hair is messy and his clothes are rumpled. Despite the unkempt appearance, and the dark circles under his eyes, Henry is the picture of a storybook prince. 

_ Genetics are a hell of a thing, _ Shaan thinks, not for the first time.

“Hi, Shaan. Do come in.” Henry, unfailingly polite, steps back to let him in the room.

“Hello, sir,” Shaan says, coming inside and shutting the door. “I just wanted to go over the itinerary for this weekend.”

“Of course,” Henry says, smiling slightly. “I’m imagining the plan goes: smile, be polite, don’t trip into Pip’s wedding cake with the First Son of the United States and cause a second Revolutionary War?”

Shaan chuckles. “Something like that, sir.”

Henry gives a small laugh. “Please sit,” he says, motioning.

There’s a Jaffa Cake wrapper on the side table. David the beagle prances over, saying hello and presenting his ears to Shaan for scratches. He stifles a groan. David the beagle is, all things considered, not the worst possible pet. But he gets hair all over Shaan’s suits.

“Mr. Claremont-Diaz will arrive tomorrow afternoon, following your polo practice. You’ll meet at the stables. There will be photographers nearby.”

“Thanks for letting me keep the practice in,” Henry says. It’s something of a breach, when Henry thanks Shaan, or any member of the royal household. He’s had several talking-tos about it. It’s not necessarily the Done Thing for a member of The Firm to deign to Thank A Staffer. But Henry once said to Shaan that, if he had to be an aloof prick in public, he could at least attempt to be a decent human being in private. 

“You’ll have a meet and greet at the stables, then he’ll come to the palace. He’ll stay in the guest quarters; I believe they’re already stocked up. Then on Sunday it’s  _ This Morning  _ with Dottie and Stu. Montclair’s team will have talking points drawn up.”

“Friendly banter, etcetera. We’re such pals. No Second Revolutionary War here, so please don’t attack us, America.” 

“Precisely,” Shaan says, watching Henry’s face remain deliberately placid. “Then a visit to the hospital.”

“Pediatric oncology, right?” 

“Yes, sir. Then he’s back off to the states and you’re preparing for a briefing on The Crown’s Scottish land holdings.”

“I assume the German wind turbines have been postponed?”

“You’ll just have to grapple with that disappointment, I’m afraid.”

Henry gives a small, but real, smile. He looks down to the carpet, playing with a tassel on the throw pillow Shaan is sure must be worth about half the quid he shelled out for his bike. Henry lets out a breath and sits back, pulling the pillow into his stomach. “Right,” he says. “That doesn’t seem too difficult.”

They’ve arrived at the tricky bit. Shaan pauses, trying to come up with the right phrase. 

“Sir —” He pauses again. “It … might be wise to start thinking of how this situation plays out … in future.”

One blink and Henry’s expression goes from placid to guarded, and then utterly blank. Shaan hates moments like these. Not for the first time, he wishes things could be different. But they’re not, and it’s his job to prepare Henry.

Whether such preparation is for Henry’s protection, or for the protection of The Crown, is a dilemma he wishes he didn’t so often face.

Henry fiddles again with the pillow tassel. Shaan clears his throat.

“It’s just that—” He pauses. “It’s important to recognize—”

“That this isn’t just a one-off event.”

“Yes, sir.”

As usual, Henry doesn’t miss a trick. He meets Shaan’s gaze, and there’s so much there — pain, anguish, nervousness, dread. Not even the barest flicker of excitement.

Shaan works to keep businesslike. Henry doesn’t do well with any kind of pity. He’ll shut down, and Shaan needs to make this last bit land.

“There needs to be more. Of course there’s a state dinner in the new year. But beyond that … if this isn’t an ongoing story for at least the next six months to a year —”

“People will think we’re full of shit, and rightly so.”

Henry rarely curses in front of him. Shaan tries not to show his surprise.

“Sir, I know —”

“Don’t.” Henry’s hand lifts a few inches in a staying gesture. “Please, don’t.”

Shaan is torn. There have too often been misunderstandings based on bad communication, or a lack thereof, and neither he nor Henry can afford for this situation to go poorly. But Henry is radiating such palpable despair, and Shaan’s words die in his throat.

It’s terribly sad, really, that Henry has to don this armor with such constancy. That he has to have this conversation with his paid equerry. They are not friends. No matter how much Henry breaks protocol in front of him, there are some barriers that just cannot be crossed.

They sit in silence for a few minutes, Henry contemplating the carpet, and Shaan watching what little life is visible from Henry’s window. Even when Henry’s looking to the outside world, there’s still an enormously sheltered view.

Abruptly Henry scrubs a hand across his hair and stands. Shaan rises quickly too, caught off guard.

“I know what’s expected of me,” Henry says. “I know what I have to do. I will be genial and welcoming. I will smile and be polite. I will make good tabloid fodder, and I will smooth things over with the Americans and the public. I will not give any hint of anything  _ deviant  _ or  _ unnatural _ .”

Henry flinches, but juts out his chin and stands tall.

Once, before Arthur’s death, Philip’s private secretary had announced his upcoming retirement. Cornelius Montclair had tactfully approached Shaan to gauge whether he was interested in assuming the role, and Shaan had just as tactfully discouraged the quest — a move that caused something of a ripple among The Crown’s business staff. Shaan had been subject to a fair amount of gossip, though never something so gauche as an outright inquiry.

He had known what they all wondered.  _ How could he have stayed? How could he have given up the opportunity to serve the future King? _ Hell, sometimes he still wonders himself.

_ This _ , Shaan thinks, looking at Henry’s pale, resolved face.  _ This is why I stayed _ . He could never have lived with himself if he’d sought a more prestigious position to leave Henry with a stranger, someone who could have potentially been cruel, or unfeeling, or indiscreet. Of course, it’s a job. Henry isn’t his family, or a friend. But Shaan feels an abiding pull to ensure his well-being nonetheless.

Someone has to.

“I’m sorry, sir. I know it won’t be easy,” Shaan says. It’s something of a daring comment, but these are unprecedented times.

“Is it ever?” Henry laughs, without humor.

“No, sir.”

They look at each other, a level stare. Henry’s is a much older gaze than any 22-year-old has a right to be giving.

“I’ll need you to help me manage this,” Henry says, surprising Shaan somewhat. “I’ll need help,” he says again, softly.

“Of course,” Shaan says. “Whatever you need, sir.” 

\--------------------------------------------------

A few hours later, Shaan pulls on his helmet and revs his bike. He has to park it outside the typical staff car park, as instructed when he first presented his documentation to register it with palace staff, and gets a thrill every time he starts it up.

His phone bings, and he’s pulling it out to check the text before leaving — an automatic impulse. But the text isn’t work-related. Well, not entirely.

_ Ready for the USS FSOTUS to arrive? _

His stomach tightens quickly, then releases. Her face fills his mind. Shaan feels stupidly childish for this reaction, but supposes it cannot be helped.

_ Ready as we’ll ever be. _

Three dots pop up, and Shaan shuts off his bike, knowing he’ll be here until she’s done speaking with him. He feels slightly pathetic for this reaction, particularly given this is a woman he’s never even physically met.

_ I for one am ready to have all sorts of bromancey Buzzfeed posts spread all over the internet. _

Shaan’s thumb hovers. He stalls, pulling his helmet off.

It’s not as though it hasn’t crossed his mind that he’ll have to be discreet with Zahra Bankston the way he is with any other professional staffer who comes into Henry’s circle. But he’s never been … interested … in any member of the palace staff or governmental employees, either here in London or abroad. This is a hitch that he hadn’t necessarily anticipated when noticing Zahra Bankston’s gorgeous face. Though they had jointly designed this weekend to present a falsehood to the public, there are layers to the falsehood that even she won’t know.

_ Alex and Henry Hung Out, OMG!!!  _ he types, half as a joke and half as a wish. This is exactly the kind of press they’ll need this trip to accomplish. But hopefully he can avoid any mentions of romance.

_ With any luck they’ll be branded BFFs and we can move on, _ Zahra types.

_ Ready to get rid of me that quickly, eh? _

_ The less I have to speak with Cornelius Montclair, the better. _

He smiles.

_ Such insubordination, Ms. Bankston. _

_ I don’t work for you, Mr. Srivastava. _

The smile turns into an outright laugh. The parking attendant cranes his neck to look at Shaan.

_ Best that you don’t. We’re agonizingly British. _

_ Stiff upper lip and no talk of feelings? _

_ Y _ _ es, and rarely. _

_ Sounds perfect. _

_ She  _ sounds perfect, if he’s being honest with himself. He’s yet to encounter anything about her he doesn’t like. Of course, they’ve yet to meet in person. Perhaps she emanates an odor he can’t abide, or breathes in an odd way. He’s broken up with women for less. Not that he’s even  _ dating _ Zahra Bankston. They’re just … talking.

Shaan can see his mother’s face now, scolding him for not yet marrying. He’s aware it’s high time he find a wife, that his family could organize something in a heartbeat. But he’s never quite been able to stomach the idea of arranged marriage. Perhaps it’s the years he’s spent in the employ of one of the most rigorously methodical organizations in the world, but he thinks some things, at least, should be left to chance.

Besides, even a relationship that’s separate from their professional lives — if that’s what he’s interested in pursuing with Zahra Bankston — can’t be  _ entirely  _ based in truth. Because Henry’s true self is the one truth that absolutely under no circumstances can be revealed to the world.

But if they were to make a rule … arrange it so they didn’t discuss work …

Shaan’s stomach tightens again. He isn’t going to have this conversation via text. This must be discussed face to face.

_Would you fancy a chat tomorrow?_ He types, before he can think better of it. _Maybe when they’re scheduled to be at the hospital?_

Three bubbles pop up, and disappear quickly. Shaan finds it rather embarrassing how much he’s anticipating her answer.

_ I think I could find some time. _

_Good,_ he types, letting out a long, slow breath. _I’ll email over details._

_ Sounds good. Talk to you soon, Mr. Srivastava. _

_ Have a good evening, Ms. Bankston. _

He slips his phone into his pocket, again pulls on his helmet and revs his bike, and turns out onto the road. 


End file.
